Childhood Bites Chapter Two: The Hunt

PINES!  PINES!  PINES!  PINES!

Alright got both of them done! I know i sent one in your ask but I wanted to post these, I’ll stop bombarding you now @gfthe-fearsome-foursome 😅

Hope you are having a wonderful day/night/evening

FORDUARY WEEK 4: HUG IT OUT

I made this comic ages ago but it fit the theme so well that I just had to redraw it for week 4. I figured a redraw would be relatively quick and easy.

…It was not. T^T

This takes place during Stan’s recovery post-Weirdmageddon. After several days of working to get his memories back, Stan starts to remember his and Ford’s complicated history. Ford is obviously deeply apologetic and tries to reconcile, but he’s also fully prepared for Stan to hate him for what happened between the two of them. Lucky for him, this is Stanley we’re talking about. He was always gonna forgive him; all he ever wanted was his brother back.

Childhood Bites Chapter Three: No One Will Miss Him

⚠️TW: Graphic, Blood, Violence, Death, Cannibalism⚠️

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒰ঌ‪‪𐂯‬໒꒱꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

The first hit shattered something.

Zeke wasn’t sure if it was bone or resolve.

The bat connected with Campelter’s ribs, sending a shockwave through Zeke’s arms. The crack was sickening, a sharp, wet sound that mingled with the boy’s scream.

Campelter collapsed onto the dock, curling in on himself. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Zeke—w-wait—”

Another swing.

This time, it caught his knee. Something popped.

Campelter wailed, clutching his leg, writhing on the wooden planks.

Zeke stood over him, bat gripped tight, chest heaving.

This should feel wrong.

He should be shaking, throwing up, panicking.

But he wasn’t.

He was calm. Steady.

And hungry.

The familiar ache twisted in his gut, gnawing at his insides, demanding more. He swallowed hard, his tongue darting over his lips.

Campelter coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth. His good hand reached out, weak and trembling. “P-please…”

Zeke tilted his head.

He should stop.

He could still walk away.

But then he thought of Stan and Ford—how Campelter had tormented them, laughed at them, humiliated them.

And suddenly, the decision wasn’t hard anymore.

Zeke dropped the bat and straddled Campelter’s chest, pinning him down. The other boy squirmed weakly beneath him, his strength draining fast.

Zeke’s breath came slow and deliberate. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Campelter’s ear. “You smell delicious.”

Then he sank his teeth in.

The taste exploded in his mouth—copper, salt, warmth. The skin split beneath his teeth, muscle tearing as he bit down harder. Campelter’s body jerked violently, his muffled screams ripping through the night.

Zeke didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

He ripped away the first mouthful, blood coating his tongue, thicker than anything he’d ever eaten before.

It was intoxicating.

Campelter’s screams weakened into gasping whimpers. Zeke barely heard him. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out everything except the wet, sticky sounds of chewing.

His fingers dug into Campelter’s flesh, prying open the wound, sinking his teeth into raw muscle, devouring.

Bite after bite.

It was better than food.

Better than anything.

The hunger that had tormented him his whole life, the emptiness in his gut—it was gone.

And for the first time, Zeke felt whole.

Hours Later

The night stretched on, the waves lapping softly against the shore. The wooden dock was painted red, but Zeke didn’t notice.

He sat cross-legged beside what was left.

Which wasn’t much.

Flesh, muscle, organs—all gone.

Picked clean.

His hands were drenched in blood, sticky and drying, his face smeared crimson. His stomach was full, warm, satisfied.

All that remained of Campelter were bones.

Zeke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling slowly.

He stared down at the remains, waiting for guilt to settle in.

Nothing came.

No regret. No horror.

Only the quiet, absolute certainty that this had been worth it.

Campelter had been a bully.

He made Stan and Ford cry.

He hurt people.

No one would notice when he was gone.

Zeke got to his feet, stretching. He glanced down at the bones, tilting his head. He could leave them, let the ocean take them.

But no.

He didn’t like leaving things unfinished.

One by one, he gathered them up, taking his time. The dock was surrounded by tall, wild grass, the kind that no one ever bothered to clear. Zeke buried the bones there, deep in the sand, hidden beneath tangled roots.

It felt right.

Like cleaning up after a good meal.

Weeks go by the summer sun hung high over Glass Shard Beach, casting golden light over the waves. The air smelled of salt and motor oil, the usual scent of work and freedom.

Zeke walked alongside Stan and Ford, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. The three of them were heading toward the shore, where the half-built Stan-O-War sat waiting for its daily dose of fixing, hammering, and general goofing off.

“Okay, hear me out,” Stan said, kicking a loose rock down the sidewalk. “We steal one of Ma’s pies, but we take it before it cools down so she won’t notice it’s missing until, like… way later.”

Ford pushed his glasses up. “That’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, because it’s foolproof!”

Ford sighed, shaking his head, and Zeke chuckled softly.

Just a normal day.

But then—

Stan suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Ford followed suit, and Zeke nearly bumped into them.

“What the—?” Zeke started, but then he saw what they were looking at.

A poster.

Taped to a telephone pole, the edges curling from the breeze.

MISSING: CAMPBELL ‘CAMPELTER’ HAYNES.

LAST SEEN AT GLASS SHARD BEACH.

A washed-out photo of his face stared back at them, smiling wide like he hadn’t screamed and begged for his life just weeks ago.

Zeke’s stomach twisted—not in fear, but in satisfaction.

It was almost funny.

Nothing left but bones, buried deep beneath the sand. No one would ever find him.

“Whoa,” Stan muttered, stepping closer. “So, wait—Campelter’s just… gone?”

Ford frowned. “Looks like it. His parents must’ve put these up.”

“Yeah, well, good riddance.” Stan crossed his arms. “That guy was a jerk. Maybe he ran away or something.”

Ford, ever the cautious one, didn’t look so convinced. “I don’t know… He was a bully, but this is weird. People don’t just vanish.”

Zeke felt Ford’s gaze shift toward him, and for a split second, his stomach tightened.

Ford had a way of noticing things.

But Zeke just shrugged, keeping his face neutral. “Guess we won’t have to deal with him anymore.”

Stan snorted. “Yeah, no complaints here.”

Ford hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I suppose.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

Zeke let out a slow, careful breath, glancing at the poster one last time.

No one will ever know.

The three of them continued walking toward the Stan-O-War, the conversation already shifting to something else.

Stan was laughing.

Ford was rambling about an idea for an engine upgrade.

And Zeke?

Zeke was still hungry.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Crimson Collapse- the story behind Bakon’s scars

Trigger warning: gore and mentions of death

Setting: a few days before Stanford reached out to Stan.

(Old artwork at the end)

The job should have been simple—a quick in-and-out heist in a crumbling old building said to house a fortune in abandoned goods. Bakon and his crew had scoped the place out for weeks, but on that fateful night, things fell apart in the worst way imaginable. The building, far more unstable than they had planned for, became a death trap.

The air inside was heavy with the stench of mildew and decay, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the silence. Bakon moved cautiously, his flashlight flickering against the cracked plaster walls and rusted pipes that jutted out like jagged teeth. He could feel the structure groaning under its own weight, the faint tremor of instability rippling through the floor beneath his boots.

Then it happened.

The ceiling gave way in an instant, unleashing a hellish cacophony of splintering wood and screeching metal. Bakon didn’t even have time to scream. A massive beam crashed down, driving him to the ground as his legs folded unnaturally beneath him with a sickening snap. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he let out a ragged gasp as sharp debris rained down, tearing into his flesh. A jagged piece of rusted rebar impaled him clean through the abdomen, bursting out of his back with a wet, nauseating sound.

The pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced—an excruciating, fiery agony that sent shockwaves through his entire body. Blood poured from the wound in heavy gushes, pooling beneath him in a sticky, crimson puddle. He tried to move, but the weight of the debris was crushing him. His ribs bent unnaturally inward, cracked and splintered like broken glass stabbing into his lungs.

Bakon’s cries for help were hoarse and broken, each breath a struggle as blood filled his mouth. His flashlight had fallen to the ground, illuminating his twisted, mangled body in cruel detail. He could see the jagged bone of his shin protruding through torn flesh, the white stark against the red. His hands, trembling and pale, weakly clawed at the rubble pinning him down, but it was no use.

Minutes dragged into hours, and Bakon’s screams turned to whimpers, then silence. The blood loss was making him lightheaded, his vision darkening at the edges as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The cold, metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he coughed weakly, spitting out a thick, congealed glob that stained the ground beside him.

He called for the others—desperate, pleading cries that echoed through the empty corridors—but no one came. His crew had abandoned him, fleeing the moment the collapse started. Even Stanley, the one person he trusted, was nowhere to be found. Alone in the suffocating darkness, Bakon’s thoughts grew frantic. Anguish and rage churned within him, mixing with the raw, primal terror of death creeping closer.

When they finally found him, Bakon was barely alive. His skin was pale and waxy, his lips blue, and his body convulsed weakly as his pulse flickered on the edge of nothingness. They rushed him to the hospital, the paramedics’ voices a distant murmur in his ears. He could feel their hands on him, the searing pain as they moved the rebar from his side, and the choking sensation of a tube being shoved down his throat.

In the operating room, his body gave out. His heart stopped, and for over an hour, Bakon was dead.

Death was not a peaceful void for him. It was cold, dark, and suffocating. Time warped, stretching into an infinite expanse of emptiness where Bakon felt the weight of his failures crushing him all over again. The silence was maddening, his own thoughts clawing at him like feral beasts. He was utterly alone, trapped in a limbo that felt like an eternity.

And then, against all odds, he was pulled back.

When Bakon woke, his body was a patchwork of scars and pain. Tubes snaked out of his arms, his chest, his throat. His legs were in heavy casts, and every shallow breath sent a sharp, burning pain through his shattered ribs. His face was gaunt, pale, and his sunken eyes stared blankly at the hospital ceiling.

The weeks that followed were a nightmare of their own. The physical therapy was brutal, each session leaving him sobbing in pain. His hands trembled as he tried to grasp a spoon, the simplest tasks requiring monumental effort. The rebar had shredded vital nerves, leaving parts of his body unresponsive, numb yet searing with phantom pain.

Worse still was the isolation. No one came to see him. He lay in that sterile room day after day, the hum of machines his only company. He thought of Stanley often, the bitterness festering in his chest. Stanley had abandoned him, left him to die, and now Bakon was trapped in this ruined shell of a body with nothing but his anger to keep him going.

Months later, when he finally left the hospital, Bakon was unrecognizable. His once-proud posture was hunched, his gait stiff and uneven as he limped out into the world. The scars on his face and body told the story of his suffering in jagged lines, and his eyes were cold, hollow, and filled with a simmering hatred.

Bakon had been given a second chance at life, but to him, it was no gift. It was a curse. And as he walked into the cold night, his mind turned dark with thoughts of vengeance. If the world had left him to rot, he would return the favor tenfold. And Stanley… Stanley the young man he loved will pay the price for abandoning him.

We love and appreciate a protective Dipper here ❤️

He is just waiting for someone stupid enough to say or do anything to his sister, he is ready to throw hands

Funny enough that was who i was hoping i would get lol

May I propose this Picrew and this Uquizz?

@sennyside

@drowninnoodles (yes I'm using your Picrew MWEHEHEHEH)

Idek I'm bored this has prolly been done before

Goodluck Pikachu